The city of Ridgehall stretched before Kael like a restless living thing—markets already rumbling, banners fluttering, and the distant clatter of blacksmiths ringing through the morning air. He moved through the streets with his hood drawn low, not wanting unnecessary attention. Even now, four days after waking from death, he could feel strange pulses beneath his skin… remnants of the serpents’ whispers, coiling and uncoiling within him.
But today wasn’t about power.
Today was about starting from the bottom.
The Guild of Ridgehall stood at the heart of the city, built of blackstone and redwood, its structure rising like a fortress with tall spires and glinting windows. A massive sign above the entrance bore the guild crest—a fang surrounded by three crossing swords.
Kael paused in front of the door.
“…This is it,” he muttered.
He stepped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a wall of noise hit him—voices arguing, laughing, shouting; tankards slamming into wooden tables; armor clanking as adventurers boasted of their latest missions.
The guild hall was a sprawling, two-story chamber. Chandeliers of iron and chain hung from the ceiling, lit by enchanted crystals that glowed pale blue. The walls were lined with mission boards, each filled with parchment sheets of varying colors—red for dangerous missions, green for moderate, yellow for beginner, black for the forbidden ones.
Kael’s eyes scanned the room.
To his left, a group of armored warriors lounged around a table. Their leader had his blond hair tied into a messy ponytail and wore a smirk that said he enjoyed being admired. He was sharpening a sword easily as tall as Kael’s chest.
Across the room, several mages in dark cloaks were engaged in intense conversation. One, a young woman with silver hair and violet eyes, watched Kael for a moment—curious, but not hostile—before returning to her group.
Near the counter, a trio of archers leaned against the wall. They had matching green cloaks, brown leather armor, and amused expressions—the kind that suggested they judged anyone who didn’t look like a trained killer.
Kael ignored them.
He approached the front desk.
Behind it sat the guild receptionist—a woman with curly chestnut hair, bright green eyes, and a neat stack of papers in front of her. She wore the standard guild uniform: silver-trimmed black vest and a long red coat. She looked efficient… and mildly annoyed.
Without looking up, she said, “Name and rank.”
Kael cleared his throat. “I’m here to register.”
That made her look up.
Her eyebrows shot upward.
“You’re… new?”
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Kael nodded.
She gave him a quick, sweeping look—up, down, then up again. Her expression tightened, clearly unimpressed.
He was wearing torn black trousers, boots with dust still clinging to them, and a simple gray cloak. No armor. No weapon visible. Nothing to indicate skill or power.
A few adventurers nearby snickered.
One of the archers whispered loudly to his friends,
“Another farmer boy come to pretend he can fight.”
Another laughed.
“He’ll die on his first F-rank job.”
Kael’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Let them talk.
The receptionist leaned forward slightly.
“Listen… guild work isn’t for everyone. We prefer applicants with basic equipment and at least some combat experience.”
“I have experience,” Kael said simply.
That only made her sigh.
“Yes, yes—everyone thinks they do.”
She slid a form toward him.
He began filling it out, but when he reached the ‘Name’ field, he paused.
Daren’s words echoed: ‘Don’t give them your real name.’
Kael wrote:
KAIN
A simple, common name.
Once the form was complete, he handed it back.
The receptionist skimmed it.
“Hm. No listed mentor, no previous missions, no references from another guild branch…” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “That means you start at the bottom.”
“I expected that.”
“Bottom,” she repeated, as if making sure he understood what he was choosing. “Not F-rank. Lower. G-rank.”
Kael raised a brow. “G-rank exists?”
“Oh yes,” she said flatly. “For the ones we expect will quit after their first mission.”
The archers behind him burst into laughter.
Kael ignored them.
“All right,” he said. “Give me a mission.”
She blinked at him.
“You’re eager. That’s… unusual.”
She reached under the desk and pulled out a dusty wooden tray labeled G-RANK ASSIGNMENTS.
When she tilted it, Kael saw the state of the parchment sheets inside—crinkled, yellow, clearly untouched for years.
These were missions nobody wanted.
She picked one at random and slid it across the table.
Kael lifted it and read.
> MISSION: CLEAN THE EASTERN GUTTER DRAINS
Reward: 5 copper
Notes: Wear protective gloves. The smell is… unpleasant.
Kael stared at the paper.
The archers behind him were laughing so hard they were choking.
“Look at him! He came for glory and got sewer duty!”
“Oh, gods—his face! I can’t—”
Even the blond warrior from earlier was smirking now, shaking his head.
Kael placed the paper down calmly.
“I need something more challenging.”
The receptionist raised one eyebrow.
“…For a G-rank? No.”
“Then raise my rank.”
Multiple people in the hall turned toward them.
Someone snorted. “Who does he think he is?”
The receptionist’s expression hardened into something between disbelief and boredom.
“You don’t get to raise your rank by asking. You prove it.”
“Then let me prove it.”
Her eyes narrowed.
She studied him for a long moment—his posture, his stillness, the strange steadiness in his gaze. Something about him unsettled her, but she masked it well.
“…Fine,” she said finally. “We do have… one other G-rank mission. Technically slightly more dangerous. But only slightly.”
She opened the tray again and pulled out a different slip—this one newer, less dusty.
Kael took it.
> MISSION: CLEAR OUT SMALL SPIRIT RATS FROM THE OLD STORAGE HOUSE NORTH OF RIDGEHALL
Difficulty: G-rank
Reward: 12 copper
Notes: Spirit rats may manifest weak illusion-type magic.
Kael exhaled.
Still too easy.
But he needed a mission.
He needed to start somewhere.
“I’ll take it.”
The receptionist nodded reluctantly.
“Very well. Bring back proof of completion, and we’ll review your evaluation.”
Kael turned—
—but a large hand slammed on the counter beside him.
The blond warrior from earlier leaned against the desk, smirking down at Kael. His two teammates flanked him—one bald, muscular, with twin axes on his back; the other with dark braided hair and a spear.
“Well, well,” the blond said. “A sewer boy pretending to be a hero.”
Kael glanced at him once, expression blank.
“…Do you need something?”
The warrior laughed, loud enough for half the hall to hear.
“You talk too much for someone about to run from spirit rats.”
Kael didn’t respond.
He simply walked around the man.
The warrior’s smile faltered.
His hand shot out, grabbing Kael’s shoulder.
“Hey. I’m not done talk—”
Kael moved.
No magic.
No lightning.
Just a simple shift of weight, a twist of his hand, and the warrior’s wrist was locked painfully behind his back.
The hall went silent.
The blond warrior froze, eyes wide.
Kael leaned close and whispered,
“I don’t want trouble. But I won’t tolerate nonsense.”
Then he released him.
The warrior stumbled backward, clutching his wrist, face pale.
His two teammates stepped forward aggressively—but the blond raised a hand to stop them.
“No,” he muttered. “Not him… not now.”
Kael walked toward the exit, ignoring every pair of eyes following him.
The receptionist exhaled shakily.
“…G-Good luck on your mission.”
Kael nodded once and pushed open the guild doors.
The moment he stepped outside, the noise faded, replaced by the cool whisper of the wind.
He looked down at the mission slip
in his hand.
“Spirit rats,” he murmured. “Fine. I’ll start with this.”
He tucked the paper inside his cloak and walked north—toward the old abandoned storage house.
Behind him, the guild hall buzzed with new, uneasy whispers.
